


Toe the Line

by orphan_account



Series: yoi filth [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Crossdressing, Dom/sub Undertones, Eros Katsuki Yuuri, Foot Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Under-negotiated Kink, Viktor's foot kink, Yuuri steps on Viktor, and overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 12:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Yuuri wears a dress, steps on Viktor, gets done just right.*The other, however, Yuuri has free — eyes still locked with Viktor’s, he shifts his weight, lifts his free foot. Lets the punched out gasp Viktor relinquishes go straight to the pooling heat in his groin and low in his spine, when he sets his foot delicately to the bulge stretching the fine silk of Viktor’s dress pants.





	Toe the Line

**Author's Note:**

> so at some point I asked @alykapediaaa what all this stepping business was about, was disabused of previous notions of punctured abdomens/scrotums etc, and went away still feeling slightly dissatisfied.
> 
> this started as a challenge to myself: could I convince myself of this stepping business? 
> 
> and then ... viktor put yuuri in a dress, i pay homage to lazulisong's [perverted victuuri date night fanon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9624452) (because i, too, am a pervert), and stepping happened.

His breath comes faster as Viktor mouths up the hollow dipping down from his ankle to the outer edge of his left foot, the hot damp pressure of his lips through sheer nylon; the hot, heavy weight of Viktor’s gaze, locked on Yuuri’s face. He can’t look away, not with Viktor looking at him like that, half-worshipful and half-challenging. One foot, Yuuri has trapped in Viktor’s long, strong fingers and the tease of his tongue over the knob of it, the lingering kiss seared into the bend where tendons curve out from his tibia to his toes. 

The other, however, Yuuri has free — eyes still locked with Viktor’s, he shifts his weight, lifts his free foot. Lets the punched out gasp Viktor relinquishes go straight to the pooling heat in his groin and low in his spine, when he sets his foot delicately to the bulge stretching the fine silk of Viktor’s dress pants. He points all his toes but the big one, runs it down the hard length lain along Viktor’s thigh from root to leaking tip. 

Viktor is all but panting now, his breath coming hot and wet, making the nylon stick to Yuuri’s skin; his pupils are blown and a flush scalds his pale cheeks, the powerful lines of his body trembling before Yuuri. On his knees before Yuuri. Frisson steals over Yuuri, up his spine and over his nerves; it _has_ been stealing over him, really, ever since the start of their play, when Viktor tumbled off the sofa laughing — only to cut off abruptly when Yuuri, unthinkingly, on some long buried instinct or a distant echo of a memory, unfolded his legs and stretched a pointed foot out to Viktor. 

This tidal wave is slow, immense, with force enough to tilt the earth on its axis; it started from his toes, crested at the base of his spine, and is now moving inch by buzzing inch out from the heart of Yuuri: the flush of — of power, heady and potent, settling into his skins, his sinews, his bones. 

Yuuri strokes back up with his toe, and down again, listening to Viktor whimper, contemplating the plush pinkness of Viktor’s bottom lip, the way Viktor’s lips have parted around his undoing. He’s still dressed in the red, lacy, gauzy confection that Viktor drew out of their wardrobe earlier, after a late afternoon round of love-making. It sits lightly on him, caresses the narrowing of his waist and flares out over his rump, lace stitched into rococo patterns and held together by translucent gauze spreading up his torso, baring his collarbones and coming together behind his neck. 

He felt foolish, hours ago, standing in front of the mirror while Viktor ran his palms over the smooth gauze panels, the raised lace undulating over Yuuri’s hips, mouth pressing wet and filthy words into the skin behind Yuuri’s ear, fingers of one hand sliding covetously over the curlicue of lace obscuring his left nipple. Viktor rubbed, Yuuri remembers, the roughness of lace in, one circle to set Yuuri’s nerves ablaze, to make him to whimper the way Viktor is now, while his other hand snuck up under the tails of the dress to tap thrice at the plug nestled securely in Yuuri. 

And they went to dinner, Yuuri playing the artless ingenue to Viktor’s carelessly louche celebrity in a dimly lit gentlemen’s club, sitting on Viktor’s knee and not having to act very much to achieve ‘overwhelmed’. He let Viktor feed him, nipped carefully constructed blini from Viktor’s fingers; sipped vodka from Viktor’s lips; moaned into Viktor’s mouth when Viktor smeared cream onto his lips and licked it into Yuuri’s own mouth after — but he would not let anyone see him blushing, tilting his head away from the covetous, scandalised eyes in the dark room. 

They’re home, now, alone. And:

Up, down; up, down.

The silk is clinging, now, the outline of Viktor hard underneath it clearer than ever. Viktor’s forehead is leaning against Yuuri’s shin, his mouth slack and his fingers tight on Yuuri’s foot. 

“Why’ve you stopped?” Yuuri can barely recognise the sound of his own voice; it’s the mantle that’s settled over him that’s made him sound like this: throaty, imperious. 

Viktor’s throat bobs. His eyelashes are thick, gorgeous, as he dips them low, as he bends his silvery head back to Yuuri’s left foot. He’s kissing his way across the metatarsals to Yuuri’s instep, open-mouthed, faint whines catching in the back of his throat as Yuuri continues stroking him; every imprint of Viktor’s mouth through the gossamer, smooth over Yuuri’s skin, lance their way up to Yuuri’s groin; he’s hardening too, in response to Viktor profaning him, to the hot thickness under his toes. 

Experimentally, Yuuri squeezes when he gets to the engorged head trapped between Viktor’s thigh and wet, clinging cloth — the groan that pulls out of Viktor is not muffled at all by his instep, is primal, sends a thrill through Yuuri almost as much as the rush of hot liquid seeping into the nylon under his toes does. Viktor kisses his way back up Yuuri’s other foot towards the ankle, gentle over the bruises, then freezes there, panting harshly — Yuuri has carefully slid his toes back up and pressed the arched length of his whole foot to Viktor, heel grinding gently down, dampening. Yuuri fancies that Viktor is so hard by this point, he can feel the flared head of him under his heel, the ridge of him.

“Please,” Viktor is gasping against the jut of Yuuri’s ankle. Tears are clotting his lashes; Yuuri feels a swell of tenderness sour in his chest. “Zolotse, I — _please_.” 

“Please what, Vitya?” he asks, gathering up the heavy sexiness churning low in his belly, pouring it into his voice.

He watches, fascinated, as Viktor shudders all over, feels Viktor jerk underneath his foot. 

There’s a sigh, weak and drawn out, Viktor dropping his forehead back against Yuuri’s calf. Viktor rests Yuuri’s captured foot on his thigh, still held loosely in the cradle of his fingers. Yuuri digs into the tense quads there with his foot, massages another groan out of Viktor with the other. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Viktor scrapes out, utterly broken. “P-please.” His hips have started rolling up into Yuuri’s foot, and Yuuri takes his foot away. He’s aching too, but its nothing compared to _this_ , the slip of satisfaction, the excitement curling in his pelvis at the way Viktor’s blue eyes fly open, the way Viktor cries out.

“You’re so needy for it,” Yuuri murmurs, not sure if he’s — surprised, or pleased, or just making an observation. He’s balancing on the knife’s edge between giving himself over to light-headed pleasure and staying grounded in the here and now, sitting on the edge of their sofa in a lacy dress, watching his lover come apart at the seams. “Take them off, Vitya.” 

The speed at which Viktor pulls his trousers open and both them and his underwear down, knees splayed out and the stained silk stretched to hell between them, caught over his strong, straining thighs, dizzies _Yuuri_. Viktor’s cock, wet and ruddy, is pulling up to slap against his abs. 

Yuuri can’t help but lean in to take Viktor’s mouth, hand sliding into the sweaty hair slicked to Viktor’s temple. Viktor lets out a helpless keen as Yuuri licks into his mouth and runs the bony joints of his crooked toes up the sensitive, bare underside of Viktor’s cock.

“ _Vitya_ ,” Yuuri breathes, his own eyelids gone heavy, the thick silicone filling his ass suddenly not enough. Not nearly enough. “I want you, Vitya.” 

Viktor moans at him, wordless. 

“This,” Yuuri groans - Viktor, too - as he squeezes Viktor’s cock between his toes, moulding his big and index toes to the outline of it, sending out a prayer of thanks for a lifetime wearing geta, and drags _down_. “So hard for me, Vitya.”

“Ye-yes,” Viktor gasps, one hand having flown to Yuuri’s hip and clenching hard there. 

“I want to feel you in me,” Yuuri tells him. Hasn’t Yuuri done enough of the work? 

The slide of Viktor’s other hand up his leg has been arrested mid-thigh; Viktor’s fingers are going to leave bruises on him. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor rasps. His roughened voice catches on something low in Yuuri’s belly, makes the heavy, hot, heady feeling start to slough off. “Fuck, _zolotse_ , you’re so —”

“I want,” Yuuri interrupts him, relentlessly dragging his toes back up and pressing with his whole foot again, leaning back to compensate for the stretch in his shin, leaning back so he can spread his legs a little more, take the pressure off his crotch and onto the plug inside him. Let Viktor glimpse the darkened patch of lace over Yuuri’s own crotch, how it’s gone from a bright, cherry-red pop to damp burgundy.

He pins Viktor with a look, the one Viktor’s told him could kill a man, the one that makes Viktor chub up even when Yuuri’s actually _angry_ with him. He knows Viktor is utterly defenceless before it.

“Give it to me,” Yuuri demands, grinds down onto Viktor’s cock and back onto the plug in him, the awareness of which has exploded like a supernova in the forefront of his mind.

Viktor bites out something in Russian, too gravelly for Yuuri to parse, before dragging Yuuri off the sofa and down into his lap. 

The light tails of the dress flutter and whisper feather-light to settle, split, over Yuuri’s right leg, folded to his chest like this, foot still resting on Viktor’s crotch. His left foot rests on the floor by Viktor’s hip, the bend of his leg less steep. Yuuri lets that thigh fall to the floor so he’s stretched entirely open, so his hard, red cock presses against the entrapping nylon, so that the flared head of the plug stretching him ready and open, keeping the wet in him, is just about visible below. 

It’s caught Viktor’s attention, definitely, the way Viktor’s eyes are riveted to it, the rise and fall of his chest, the dart of his tongue out to wet his lips. 

“ _Vitya_ ,” Yuuri says impatiently, wriggles his hips and presses down onto his crotch again. 

It seems like Viktor stops breathing for a second, before he lifts and presses a tender kiss to the sole of the offending foot. Then he tucks it over his broad shoulder and fucking rips the sorely abused pantyhose stretched thin between Yuuri’s legs apart. 

Yuuri’d laugh at this show of barbarism, but the plug is being worked roughly out of him, so he’s busy throwing his head back and moaning, moaning as Viktor works his fingers back into Yuuri, slick with lube from gods-know-where, striking at where Yuuri needs them most while Yuuri is _still_ seeing spots and harshing out breaths from the stretch of his rim around the plug as it went. 

“Fuck me,” Yuuri gasps, fucking himself down onto Viktor’s fingers, reaching to pulls Viktor closer by the neck, levering himself up with his abs. “ _Fuck_ me.” 

The lace of the dress is unbearable stimulation on his skin now, heated and oversensitive, the gauzy tails of the skirt tickling at the inside of his thighs; he’s a squirming mess of want, satisfied only by the snap of Viktor’s hips into him, the fullness of Viktor getting deep into him, the friction of Viktor moving in him. The rough moan Yuuri catches in his mouth.

Cradled in Viktor’s hips, arching against the lip of the couch, Yuuri bounces — Viktor on his knees and pounding into Yuuri just the way Yuuri wants, Viktor biting his lip against impending orgasm. The thick, fluid thrusts; the way Viktor’s dripping with sweat onto Yuuri’s dress and his own shirt; the - the realisation that they’re both still mostly clothed — the cresting pleasure of it all snaps loose Yuuri’s tongue. 

He moans enticements, screams his need, urges Viktor on with “more, yes, yes, _ah_ , so good.”

When Viktor pants, pained: “I can’t — let me — please", Yuuri scrabbles against the linen over Viktor’s back, growling, “I want — feel, _nnnh_ , you.” 

Feeling Viktor shudder against him, the last swelling and the hot phantom pulse of Viktor spending in him, is almost enough to bring Yuuri over the edge too. He teeters there, Viktor still buried in him, clenching around Viktor desperately until Viktor kisses him deep and breath-stealing, slides a hand down to where they’re joined and rubbing into the puckered, swollen skin there, sending shockwaves deep through Yuuri. Viktor’s other hand wraps rough lace and smooth gauze around Yuuri’s cock, rubs, and Yuuri’s wailing and seizing up, spilling over onto the dress, Viktor’s fingers, Viktor’s belly. 

Viktor’s fingers at his hole probe further, pushing in around Viktor’s softening cock and hook under the perimeter of his rim; the stretch of it is — Yuuri pulses a little more, mewls weakly, and then Viktor lets him go.

They tip over to lie in between the sofa and the coffee-table, catching their breath, sweat cooling on them. 

Yuuri whines a little when Viktor pulls out, the trickle of come and lube ticklishly cool against the back of his thigh until it meets the ragged top of his pantyhose. 

“Wow,” Viktor laughs shakily, fingers trembling a little on Yuuri’s back, where he’s helping to pull down the zip of it. 

Yuuri peels the top of the dress off himself, makes a face. Inexplicably, Viktor laughs again and kisses him.

“I hope this didn’t cost too much,” Yuuri says severely when they part. “Because nothing can save this dress, Vitya.” 

“Absolutely _worth it_ , zolotse,” Viktor says, eyes bright and fervent, and ducks in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> i also almost quoted rocky horror for the title: "AND THEN IT'S A STEP TO THE RIGH-IGH-IGH-IGHT", and then _PULL YOUR KNEES IN TIGHT_. fortunately alykapedia intervened and suggested the current title. 
> 
> /slides sheepishly away


End file.
